No Matter What
by ABakerStreetIrregular
Summary: John will probably never stop worrying, because Sherlock will never stop worrying him. Warning for very mild slash, allusions to drug use. Thank you for reading and please review, I appreciate it.


Sherlock shifted, mumbling something incoherent, when John slipped out of the bed. The words hadn't much form but John knew they meant, "Don't be gone long," and that made him smile through the warm fog of sleep.

After a trip to the loo and the kitchen for a glass of water, he returned to find Sherlock had rolled over, spreading his long limbs carelessly over ¾ of the bed, and kicked off the duvet.

There was nothing now tantalizingly on display that he hadn't seen before, of course, but this didn't happen very often, and he could forgive the fact Sherlock was a terrible bed hog, if it gave him the chance to see the man actually sleep. He knew at once it for a rare pleasure, one very few people had the luxury of indulging in, and that made it a thing to be treasured.

Miraculous, absolutely miraculous, how boyish he looked when the ferocious intellect was absent. All his sharp angles gentled, the brow smoothed, lips soft and slack, all that keen tension gone. His skin, so white, God, in this tender light of early morning it _glowed_, every ridge of bone and curve of muscle neatly delineated in blue, and the riot of curls a solid mass of darkness against the pillowcase.

He was, well, he was breathtaking. There was no other word for it.

John always felt something warm unfold in his chest when he thought that Sherlock was his, beautiful, blindingly brilliant and _his_. How a simple, slightly damaged ex-Army doctor could merit such a thing was beyond him, but he didn't like to question it. It felt too much like tempting Fate.

He couldn't have said when he approached the bed, or how long he stood there, quietly absorbing this vision, and he didn't realize the light had changed, but the lanky body on the bed had changed subtly. Still whippet thin, leanly muscled, and still undeniably beautiful, but now he could see all its little flaws taking shape.

In a cruel sort of way, it took some of the pressure off, reminded him that Sherlock was indeed human, and in another way it chilled him, to think he was as vulnerable as anyone else and could be snatched away by illness or injury. There were times that seeing the proof of that was too much.

Beyond the very faint red mark of an affectionate bite John had left there himself, the long pale throat was perfect, but his mind's eye could easily imagine the ghosts of murderous garrotes and strangling fingers. Then there was the very real shadow of a deep, fresh bruise marring the front cap of the shoulder and stretching down onto his breast (when had he gotten that?). Some denting just below the right pectoral muscle, across the sixth and seventh ribs, told a story of badly healed breaks, and curving across the flat plane of his belly, thin raised white seams proved that at some time, he had met with the business end of someone's knife. Two of these were older that the others, so it had been more than one assailant and more than one knife, but they were all shallow, he was lucky. Three puckered, perfectly round scars spoiled the pale, baby fine skin of his hip, (Christ, were they cigar burns?), and at the top of the long thigh muscle, too close to the femoral artery for John's comfort, another scar from yet another knife wound. But this scar was angry and red, that one had been deep.

John catalogued them easily, again, this body was not precisely new to him, but it hurt him to see them and he didn't imagine for a moment that that feeling would ever stop. Nor would the bone deep urge to find each and every person who had inflicted these myriad wounds, tried to take his life more often than not, and make them payin any way he could.

The light had brightened further now and his eyes traveled relentlessly to the left arm, flung wide, though he knew what he would see there, and hated it.

Long fingers curled into the upturned palm, and between the wrist and just above the elbow, following the tracery of blue veins, all the scars and bruises of track marks sat plain as day. Most of them were old, thank God, but a few small rosy bruises indicated more recent use.

Damn.

His anger at this was a fragmented thing. It infuriated him that the man should use himself so out of what he saw as simple boredom, and yet it could also be one of the lesser of more uncontrollable evils that Sherlock perpetrated upon himself.

Inviting London's Most Wanted out to play when he hadn't any cases on was not unheard of, neither was target practice in the house, with John's very loud, very illegal gun, out of the question. The experiments with poison didn't bear mentioning, nor did the dissection of body parts on the kitchen table, where they _ate_, for pity's sake.

The drug use was so much more immediate a danger and it wasn't that he had to track down the one who hurt Sherlock, Sherlock was hurting himself and John wasn't quite sure how to handle that. To no avail he had tried reasoning with him, even threatened to move out, and to say neither attempt had gone over very well would have been a gross understatement. In fact, they had both backfired spectacularly. John should have remembered that the bastard was stubborn as a block and used to having his own way all the fucking time.

John sighed, and Sherlock said, "It is better now, you know."

John didn't flinch at the sound, or the tone of voice, but thought back to approximately 90 seconds ago, when Sherlock had drawn a slow deep breath and sighed. Yes, that must have been when he had woken up to find John looming over him in the dimness like some disapproving spirit.

Cool grey eyes regarded him warily from the bed.

John made a little moue and raised one eyebrow, tried not to sound disbelieving and only sounded sad. "Is it really?"

"Yes, "and then, "I won't apologize."

Then how was it that he managed to look both contrite and defiant at once?

"I didn't think you would," John's voice wasn't hard, and he managed a smile. "Neither will I."

Sherlock beamed at this, snatched the forgotten glass of water from John's hand, drank most of it, set it on the bedside table before seizing John's wrist and pulling him neatly into bed, flipping him onto his back.

"Let's not start the day this way," Sherlock purred pleadingly in his ear, between kissing and biting that tender spot where neck turned into shoulder, sliding his body enticingly over John's, "I can think of far more pleasant beginnings."

"So can I-, oh Christ!" John hissed, shivering deliciously, breath caught in his throat as Sherlock managed to get a nimble, clever hand into John's pajama bottoms and begin to stroke his cock with single-minded efficiency.

"Good."

Later, when they were both lying breathless and very pink in the cheek, John remembered he was cross.

"That was so not fair."

Sherlock gave a huff of laughter. "I know."

John was quiet, then, "I mean it," and he wasn't referring to the underhanded way Sherlock had distracted him.

"I know you do," he didn't see it but he could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice as his fingers found John's, laced themselves in and squeezed.


End file.
